A few streets from where Viktor stood in Belgravia, Kyle pushed through the doors of the Lanesborough and let the warmth of the lobby wash over him.
He had taken the long way back. Through Regent's Park, down through Marylebone, across Hyde Park while the light turned soft and gold over the water. Almost three hours of walking. His legs ached. His face was raw from the wind.
His head was no clearer than when he had started.
The doorman nodded politely at him. Kyle nodded back and took the lift up to the Royal Suite.
The moment he opened the door, he heard it.
"No, no, no! You're doing it wrong!"
Jasmine stood in the middle of the living room with her hands on her hips. In front of her, on her knees on the rug, was Ella, holding the Hamleys bag and wearing an expression of deep suffering. Her red hair had been messed up until it stood out in every direction.
"I'm doing it exactly like you said," Ella protested.
"Anthony wouldn't say 'cool.' He'd say 'wicked.' He's British."
